


Jughead, Scourge of Muspellheim

by sarahenany



Category: Archie Comics, Punisher
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Punisher returns to Riverdale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jughead, Scourge of Muspellheim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [invisibleHandyman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibleHandyman/gifts).



"Kinda weird to be coming back to Riverdell again," Micro says, looking out the window at the outskirts of the peaceful suburban town.

"River _dale,"_ Frank Castle corrects absently, bending over his weapon case.

"Yeah, whatever." The electronics expert is smiling. "Ain't sorry to be back, though. That Pop could make a mean burger."

Frank looks up in time to catch the 'Welcome to Riverdale' sign. "You'd remember that."

"Hey, I don't remember you refusing those burgers the Jones kid gave us." Micro grins. "Had to hide the last 'Jug's Delight' away from you, once you found out how good they were."

"So that's where it went," Frank ripostes _pro forma_ , but he's already gone back to his examination of a photograph of the Jones kid in question.

Or his twin.

Wearing a bejeweled crown, ermine cloak visible in the surveillance photo, King Astjid of the ex-Kingdom of Muspellheim, now returned to the fold of United Benverdent States of Eastern Europe, stares hard into the camera with glittering black eyes. But for his facial expression, he's a dead ringer for Forsythe P. 'Jughead' Jones – he has his face, his nose, his baby-faced features. He doesn't even have the shelf of buckteeth that distinguished Archie Andrews' evil twin, Red, the drug dealer, from his more innocent counterpart. Frank knows that the man's body, though not visible in the headshot, is also a twin of the teenager's, height and weight virtually identical. "It's like this town's cursed."

"Yeah," Micro responds with feeling. "What are the odds, huh? Makes you wonder if there's some clone factory somewhere we don't know about."

Frank just slides the clip into the Mauser, reaches for the case containing the semi-automatics. Every innocent kid in this town with his evil twin somewhere in the world. He wonders if it is true. He wouldn't put it past the gods to be dispensing some kind of divine injustice.

Frank looks out the window at the suburban houses, just starting to come into view, remembering the plucky, friendly kids, their equally courageous, selfless teachers, the charming Miss Grundy – he never got her first name… _(and he never will. No more women, not now, not ever, not after—He won't destroy another woman, ever)_ Well, the gods picked on the wrong town, that's all. Riverdale _matters_ to Frank, and he knows it does to Micro, too, in a way that nothing has for a long while. It feels like home. Not that they'd know what 'home' is, more like the way 'home' is _supposed_ to feel, how it would feel if they knew it, but it feels like home should feel like – _home._

"I like you in Riverdale," Micro says.

Frank looks up, momentarily surprised out of his weapons check. "Does that mean you don't like me elsewhere? Micro, I'm hurt."

Micro keeps his eyes on the road. "Nah, seriously. I like you better. This place does something to you. You're more… human."

The gun click-clacks together hard, Frank's movements more violent than he'd intended. " _Human_ can get you killed."

"Billions of humans living their lives every day in every country in the world," Micro observes  blandly.

Frank oils the pin meticulously, checks the firing chamber. "And thousands of them are killed, every day."

"Touché."

The van goes deeper into the quiet, peaceful town.

* * *

 

Frank's Army training covers delivering warnings and bad news to innocents, but that was in another lifetime. Now, he takes refuge in terse, clipped delivery as he tells the school principal what to expect.

"They're bent on revenge. Astjid declared Muspellheim an independent state in January of last year. He only sat on the throne for ten months, but he ruled with an iron fist that made Vlad the Impaler look like a greeter at a petting zoo. He had hundreds killed. He was a very inventive torturer. Acid, garroting, burn chambers, had people's fingers cut off, limbs broken, flayed alive…"

"I see." Weatherbee's kindly face has turned rather green, but he nods gamely.

"In any case," Micro cuts in gently, "Muspellheim was reclaimed as a province of the United Benverdent States of Eastern Europe. The populace had had it with Astjid after one month, never mind ten, and Astjid realized that he had no chance. He ran as fast and as far as he could. Now he's wanted for crimes against humanity. But there are Muspellehimers who decided to take the law into their own hands. He's being chased across the globe by vigilante groups, and the government is hell-bent on getting him back and trying him before a court of justice. This is one of the first times the Punisher has been called upon officially by a government and strictly instructed to apprehend a criminal and take him alive." Micro's gaze flickers to Frank, not without a trace of wry amusement. "However much he wants to ice the bastard."

Weatherbee nods grimly. "I understand, but I don't quite see what this has to do with us."

For answer, Frank hands him the photo of the deposed King.

The principal's jaw drops.

After a long moment, Weatherbee hands back the photo. "Is this…"

"Yes," Frank confirms impassively.

Micro takes up the tale, hoping to rescue the school principal. "You know how the kids are, with Facebook and all the social networking sites. Some of the vigilantes have seen young Forsythe Jones' photo online, and are convinced that he's Astjid in disguise, posing as a high school student, hiding out in Middle America."

Weatherbee pales. "They might come to kidnap him?"

Frank nods. "He needs protection. And although I'm not a _babysitter_ …" He lets his sentence trail off with a forbidding frown.

"But wouldn't it be better to catch the real Astjid and deliver him to justice? That would be the best course," says Weatherbee, "to eliminate any chance of confusion?"

"We plan to do that," Micro says reassuringly, "as soon as the mobs are taken care of. There isn't time to do both. We've received information that the vigilantes are on the way – we're probably just a few steps ahead of them."

"So you're… here to be Jughead's bodyguards?"

If Frank Castle were not The Punisher, if he were not a cold-blooded killer, he would sigh. Deeply. Possibly roll his eyes, as well. As it is, he just nods.

Weatherbee has no such compunctions. "Well," he sighs gustily, "this is going to be an interesting week."

* * *

 

MONDAY

"I don't believe this," Veronica Lodge gripes. "Daddy has perfectly good bodyguards! And they're getting some—some—someone," she visibly modifies whatever she was going to use because, while all superheroes have a code of not hitting a girl, you just don't fling insults at seven-foot-tall guys packed with solid muscle that make Big Moose Mason look like Dilton Doiley, at least not while said seven-foot guy is walking along with you and your pals, "to sit with us in class!"

"The Bee explained it, honeybunch," the Andrews kid tries to placate her. Huh, pussy-whipped, Frank thinks, and the way the boy's fawning over her like a lost puppy it's a fair bet she isn't even putting out. "Jug…"

Veronica rolls her eyes. "Jughead, with a resemblance to royalty? If he were a Lodge," she tosses her head, "I'd understand…"

The rest of her words are swallowed up by the swinging glass door of the schoolhouse. God, it still gives Frank the collywobbles _– he's the **Punisher** , the Punisher does not get the **collywobbles!** – _ to be in a high school. But there's something about their conversation, their lightheartedness, their easy camaraderie... Frank's not nostalgic, though. Not nostalgic at all. It's more like a trip into Never-Never land than a revival of his youth. _Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Castle._

"Don't sweat it, Arch," the target of all this says to his worried-looking friend. "Betcha a dozen burgers they won't show up here at all." Jughead slings a friendly arm round the redhead as they amble through the corridors, fresh-faced students milling around them.

By the time they take their seats in class, the kids' conversation has moved on to something else. "Arch," the boy's black-haired nemesis, Reggie Mantle, is mocking. "C'mon, _'Arch'?_ What kind of name is that, needle-nose?" _'Needle-nose?'_ Ah, he must mean Forsythe. But, gabbing a mile a minute, Mantle's moved on to mangling Archie's name. "Arch-enemy, arch-nemesis, arch-rival, arch-fiend, arch-villain…"

"Arch _bishop,"_ cuts in a feminine voice pointedly, "arch _angel!"_

Frank looks idly over to see who's come to Archie's impassioned defense. Ah, Betty Cooper, blonde hair falling over her eyes, face flushed. Spunky kid, but no prizes for guessing who _she's_ in love with.

And no prizes for _him,_ Frank thinks disgustedly of his own self, turning into a one-man Lonely Hearts Club. Punisher, indeed. At this rate, he's going to change his name to the Primrose Pretender.

In his own defense, his downfall started last night, when he first fell down the rabbit-hole. Mr. Weatherbee alerted the boy's family and insisted on taking Frank and Micro to the Joneses', where all of young Forsythe's teenage friends were already gathered, alerted by that sixth sense for juicy gossip that thrives in the army, the navy, and any and all institutions of learning. When they were briefed, they were horrified, but – like naïve teenagers everywhere who thought they were invincible – not cowed.

"We'll all protect him," Betty vowed. Frank felt himself teetering on the edge between _Stupid naïve kids_ and _At least their heart's in the right place._ Then Archie added, "You can bet on it," and Frank remembered the last time, and thought, _Maybe they can, at that._

"If Needle-nose's ugly mug doesn't frighten them away first," Reggie smirked. But he shrank under Betty's withering glare. "Okay, okay! We'll protect him!"

"'Course, we'll be doing most of the protecting," Micro said diplomatically. "The Punisher will be on duty 24/7 until we nab these vigilantes."

"Even in school?" Veronica Lodge asked.

"Yes," said the principal. "I've given special permission until this threat is removed, and it's been cleared with the School Board."

"Chance to brush up on your algebra, huh?" Micro shot Frank a grin.

Frank almost grinned back, then remembered why he was here, remembered he was here to catch a gang of would-be murderers. He put on his most impassive face.

Too bad Micro can always see right through him anyway.

"You'll stay with us, of course," said Mrs. Jones. And the Jones family wouldn't hear of anything else. Frank might have stood up to monstrous threats and killed countless men with his bare hands, but _you_ try resisting a smiling mother guiding you into a roomy spare bedroom with soft beds and clean linen.

"It makes sense from a security standpoint," that traitor Micro said when he caught a whiff of Mrs. Jones' cooking, and that settled it. And so they sat down to family dinner in a warmly lit dining room; after Mr. Jones had said grace, Micro, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Archie, who'd stayed for dinner, had each nabbed their share and left Jughead and Frank to the rest of the food, making bets on which of the two could eat more in one sitting. Frank's still – frankly – amazed: _he_ eats that much because of his rigorous training regimen, and to build muscle, but that skinny Jones kid – where does he put it all?

Later, the family played Monopoly, and although Frank had gone out for a run and to secure the perimeter, he still came back in time to catch the tail-end of the game, Archie and Jughead laughing and kidding around with Micro, who seemed to have joined forces with the other adults in a hostile takeover of the utilities and railroads. Frank went upstairs to clean up and get ready for bed; by the time he'd come out of the shower, Mrs. Jones was bidding Micro goodnight outside the door to their room, with a "Be sure to say your prayers, now!"

He nearly smiled at that as he fell into bed. Prayers weren't for men like him, hadn't been for years now. But lying here in the Joneses' house – he could almost, almost believe.

And so, here he is in the classroom, fucking _daydreaming._ What is it about Riverdale, anyway? The sooner they find the vigilantes the better, so he can get the hell out of here before he goes soft.

There's a shadow outside the window. Frank bolts up, heedless of the startled glances headed his way, and lunges for the door. Pounding down the corridor, he bursts through the school entrance and thunders down on the intruder, weapon drawn.

"Mwiw," says the hapless orange kitten, facing down the barrel of a Luger.

Frank passes a hand slowly over his eyes. It's going to be a long few days.

* * *

TUESDAY

"No, kid, you _can't_ just go to Pop's Chok'lit Shoppe! What part of _Lynch Mob_ don't you get???"  
  
"In _Riverdale????_ "

"Yeah, in fu—" Frank censors himself, grinding his teeth. "This is a mob who'd do much more to you than lynch you. Trust me on that."

Jughead stuffs his hands in his pockets. He's a good kid, but one more word out of him and Frank's going to strangle him and save the lynch mobs the trouble. Pop's Chok'lit Shoppe is an absolute security nightmare: kitchen with back entrance, huge plate glass windows that might as well have a bullseye painted on them, more windows to the right and left, an alcove for a payphone, fire doors… Just—no way.

"But how am I going to get my dozen burgers?"

Frank's about to tell him what he can do with his dozen burgers, small-town morality be damned, when Archie pops up to rescue him. "I'll play delivery-boy, Jug," he says placatingly. "I'll get 'em and we can chow down in front of the TV and do homework, okay?"

Jughead nods grudgingly. "How long is this gonna take, anyway?" he whines, looking at Frank.

Frank gives him his best impassive stare. "As long as your head's still attached, you'll know we're still on."

The sight of the kid swallowing nervously gives him, he has to admit, a little guilty pleasure.

* * *

WEDNESDAY

"Hey, Arch, you know how Veronica likes that whole 'Bad Boy' thing?"  
  
Archie grinds his teeth. "Yeah, Reggie."  
  
"I'm over, Arch. Ancient history. Yesterday's newspaper. I might as well switch teams and date Kevin Keller!"

Archie looks at his longtime rival, deep in a slough of despondency. "She doesn't even look at him that way," he offers reassuringly.

Reggie lets his head fall to the counter of Pops' with a _thunk._ "Aw, c'mon. Did you even see him? Muscles out to here… If I worked out till the next millennium, I'd never get as big as one lousy biceps!"

Archie very distinctly remembers how the fellow is built – has wondered what those muscles would feel like to the touch, too. Wondered if that put him on the list of Kevin's potential dates for a Saturday night. But there's no room to examine that impulse right now. Seeing Mantle 'The Magnificent' completely broken-down, his faith in his own bad-boy-ness shattered, Archie pats him on the back and sets about consoling his rival, longtime nemesis, and ultimately, friend.

 _Blubbering_ friend. Life is hard sometimes.

* * *

THURSDAY

"Yes." Frank grinds out the words as if his jaw is a piece of centuries-old machinery, clogged with rust. "I said four dozen hamburgers. To go."  
  
"Sure, sure," says Pop. "So where have you been _hiding_ Jughead? I haven't seen him lately!"  
  
The sound of Castle's palm hitting his forehead is like a pistol shot.

* * *

FRIDAY

"So you say that Mr. Castle person is coming back this evening to pick up Forsythe's test results, Mr. Weatherbee?"  
  
"Yes, he--" The principal pauses, eyeing Miss Grundy suspiciously. "Geraldine, are you wearing _perfume?_ "

* * *

SATURDAY

It's the weekend when something breaks.

To be honest, Frank is nearing his own breaking point. Mornings are spent babysitting the school – after that first ridiculous day in class, he prefers to scout around the perimeter, stay outside the windows, patrol the corridors. Then he walks the kids home, a silent, impassive presence that he knows slightly damps their teenage enthusiasm as they chatter and bicker.

After dinner at the Jones household – always an amusing event, and Frank has learned to unbend a little to compliment Mrs. Jones on her wonderful cooking – they split up. Micro works on electronic security with the kid – really, in his rant on Facebook security holes, the computer whiz used expletives Frank didn't even know Micro _knew –_ while Frank works on his training routine. He's moved some of his weights into the Jones basement, so he won't have to work out too far from the site he's guarding. Then it's a run around the streets of Riverdale. He uses his running time to familiarize himself up close and personal with the nooks and crannies of the town he's only seen on GPS – satellite mapping is all very well, but you can't really tell from Google Earth, or any of the more specialized military sites for that matter, how a dip in the ground just at the right angle affords a good hiding place, or that a certain area is a security risk because it affords a lateral view of a window in someone's house.

The Jones kid is still confined to barracks, of course, and has kicked up one hell of a fuss. It's not so much that Jughead resents the inaction – really, for someone with such a wildfire metabolism, the sedentary nature of his behavior is stunning – but that he resents his mother putting him to work with a hundred and one chores while he's in the house "on my _weekend!"_ he concludes aggrievedly. Apparently, Frank gathers, Jughead's favorite activity would have been to lounge in the hammock in the front garden, in full view of the main street, accessible by the backyard, and through the bushes on the corner, which would only be complete by painting a big target on his chest. _Kids._

He actually doesn't blame Jughead for wanting to lie in a hammock in the garden. The weather in Riverdale these days is as picture-perfect as the rest of the town. It's that season when summer is just melting into fall, when the retailers blaxon "Back To School" on everything and the evenings are warm and hospitable but the freshness of fall sends a breeze to open things up and make it exhilarating. In a way, Frank could almost see himself lying in a hammock in the garden himself. Settling here. Daring to love a woman, maybe.

Getting her killed.

He sweeps the thought from his mind and picks up the pace, pounding the pavement hard.

It's as he's jogging back to the Jones household that he senses rather than sees it – a shift in the shadows beneath the trees at the side of the house. Frank freezes. He's been sent on wild-goose chases more than once – these kids need goddamned handcuffs, not a babysitter – but he never lets himself forget that there's a clear and present threat, even if these innocent suburbanites take it lightly. He inches closer, black clothing ensuring he's one with the night-dark garden. To his left, the windows at the front of the house emanate good cheer. Mrs. Jones is baking, and Mr. Jones is with Micro watching some cop show.

Where's Jughead?

In full stealth mode, Frank steals sideways into the bushes around the house. There's a definite rustling from the two tall trees separating the Joneses' from the neighbors' property. Frank hasn't lived this long without being able to separate wind-rustling from people-rustling by sound and sight and smell and maybe a few other senses not in the books. And without making his own approach sound exactly like wind-rustling.

He's a few feet from the house when he melts into the darkest shadows and dons an infrared scope. But before he can aim it into the woods, a scraping sound from above makes him whip around and look up into Jughead's bedroom window.

The cause of all this trouble, Forsythe P. Jones himself, is straddled half-in and half-out of the window, looking like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He grins sheepishy. "Uh… nice weather we're having?"

Frank fists his hands at his sides and counts to ten and then to twenty and then to thirty and then figures to hell with it. "What in the name of all that's holy are you doing?"

The kid ducks his head in embarrassment. "I—I've had this date for a week—hottest girl in school—since before this trouble started—and I didn't want to stand her up…" He trails off, though, because if looks could kill, Jughead would be already fluttering to the ground in little flakes of incinerated ash like the 3D version of Voldemort in the movie. Which was far less cool than the book. Totally ruined the climax.

 _What?_ Micro's a real geek for this stuff, and sometimes Frank has to humor him.

Frank waves a hand above his head, already dismissing the silly kid and focusing his scope on the trees. "Get lost. No, scratch that. Get inside—Just get out of my sight!"

Forsythe disappears through the window with the alacrity of a groundhog who's just been notified that it isn't Groundhog Day, while Frank vaults the fence and runs off through the sparsely wooded area behind the house, combing the grounds with his scope. Innocent suburban community or not, if they don't come quietly Frank has no compunctions about shooting first and finding out who the hell they are later.

But it's too late. The vigilantes have disappeared out of range of the IR scope faster than Frank would have given untrained citizens credit for. Trained, then? He wouldn't put it past them to be ex-police or even military, although many of the higher-ranking cadres of the Muspellheim Armed Forces were actually on Astjid's side, bribed with extremely generous benefits, not to mention promised virtually absolute power, which blah blah blah. Frank files away the question for future consideration, and turns back towards the Jones household. He'll be standing watch under the kid's window tonight.

* * *

SUNDAY

It's 4 AM when things come to a head.

With the benefit of stealth and surprise, not to mention Micro's elegant net of electronic traps and tripwires, Frank can afford to melt into the blackness of the deep shadows under the angle of the side of the house, and just watch and wait. He's been waiting for four hours, since the skittish family went to bed. Mr. Jones almost collapsed when he heard that there had been activity outside the house – Frank chose not to mention the boy's aborted little after-hours escapade – while Mrs. Jones had insisted that they all stay up and keep vigil.

"That's the opposite of what you have to do," Frank instructed firmly. "Turn out the lights and go to bed."

"But—but how can we go to bed knowing some villain is out there wanting to kidnap my son!"

"Do you imagine," Frank told her firmly, "that any self-respecting villain, as you put it, would come within a hundred yards of the house with the lights all shining in the windows and people moving back and forth like a Mardi Gras parade? I need to lure him in, and the only way he'll approach the house again is if the lights are out and everyone's asleep!"

"But he came in the first time with all the lights on," Mr. Jones protested. Jughead, Frank's glad to remember, had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Frank shrugged. If he had a nickel for every civilian quibble he heard… "It's later now," he said firmly. "Now go up into your bedrooms, turn out the lights and go to bed."

"But how can we fall asleep with someone like that outside?" Mrs. Jones lamented.

"Pretend."

Pretend my ass, Frank thinks now, his sharp ears picking up the sounds of slumber from the upper level. Both parents are snoring softly, while Jughead is outdoing himself, sawing not so much logs as entire redwoods.

The tripwire sounds, silent alarm flashing at Frank's belt, and, Frank knows, on Micro's screen in the truck. Brilliant idea of Micro's to silence the clanging bells and wailing sirens – that would be all Frank needs, to deal with a rudely awakened Jones household in hysterics. Now, Frank creeps stealthily towards the point on the grid where the alarm's flashing.

And trips over Archie Andrews.

* * *

The only thing that makes Frank stifle his bellow of rage is that he doesn't need an audience. If he wraps his hands round the boy's throat, he'll probably kill him. So instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten and then to twenty and then to thirty and then he opens his eyes because the kid's making little I'm-being-crushed choking noises beneath him. Levering himself up onto his elbows but still pinning the kid with his body, Frank glares down at him with his most forbidding expression.

Archie grins sheepishly from ear to ear. "Uh… hi there?"

This time the bellow of rage _will_ come out, but at least Frank manages to clamp his lips shout so it comes out less as a howl and more as a "Gmmmmmmmmmm."

"Sorry," says the teenager guilelessly. "I tripped."

Frank splutters, tries to speak, splutters, then finally manages to get the words out. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Archie looks up at him with such innocence in his baby-blues that, for a moment, Frank doesn't want to throttle him _quite_ so much. "Jug's my best friend. I wanted to help."

"Help," Frank repeats slowly. He would have smacked his head with his palm, but his arms are the only thing keeping him from crushing the silly kid. "Do you know that in combat zones, the presence of _one_ civilian reduces the odds of injury-free mission completion by a percenta…"

Frank stops and swallows. When he started speaking, Archie _squirmed_ beneath him. And squirmed again. And now he feels it—the kid is definitely—

Oh, _shit._

It's been fucking _years_ since anyone's had an erection in Frank's presence, never mind _from_ Frank's presence, unless you count the porn he sometimes watches between missions when he's desperate. He's sworn off women forever, since… he won't even let himself think it…

Archie squirms again, and even in the black night, Frank can see the heat creeping up the freckled face. And Goddammit, he's having his own reaction, too.

Frank opens his mouth, whether to speak to the kid or kiss him or do _what_ he doesn't know…

…and the silent alarm flashes again.

His first impulse is to glare down at Archie Andrews. _"Now_ what? The basketball team? Football buddies come to help?"

Archie's eyes have widened, and his erection's gone down. That, more than anything else, alerts Castle that something's afoot. You don't get a sixteen-year-old from 60 to 0 in nothing flat unless things have gone really wrong. "Stay out of sight," he raps out, vaulting up over the boy's prone figure, checking his GPS. Micro has already pinpointed the intruders on the close-up map—moving slow and stealthy, so they don't know Frank's there.

"Oops!" CRASH! BOOM! Archie sets off the tripwire.

Frank does bellow with rage then, far and loud into the night.

"Liebe Götter!" an unfamiliar voice cries out in the night. "You did not tell me there were mountain lions in this part of Riverdale, Ulrich!"

"Keep your voice down, Berthold…"

"You shut your trap, Kristian!"

"Hold it right there." A crisp voice cuts across both of the strangers'. "Name's Micro. Pleased to meet you. Or should I say _Wilkommen?"_

* * *

"I'm so glad the nightmare's over," Mrs. Jones sighs as she collapses into a chair in the silly little movie-set that passes for a police station in this town.

"You can say that again," echoes her husband.

"We owe you a debt of gratitude," the police chief says pleasantly.

"Not at all," Micro says, blushing slightly.

"You did good," Frank says tersely, and Micro ducks his head and beams. The praise is well-deserved. Micro – Frank learns with everlasting gratitude, as he wouldn't have felt comfortable executing these men in Riverdale, and there aren't really facilities here or in his truck to hold them for any length of time – has already gotten online with their Washington contacts, and they'll be sending a transport tomorrow to collect the Three Muspellheimian Stooges. After which, they'll be deported and someone else's problem. And good riddance. "These men are dangerous," Frank tells the Chief of Police. "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but double the guard until the transport gets here."

The Chief of Police nods seriously. Standing and putting up with the obligatory round of thanks and handshakes, Frank has two things on his mind. First, that it's about time a job went right for a change. Perhaps he ought to come to Riverdale more often.

And second, he really needs to find Archie Andrews.

* * *

He catches up with him later on Sunday, in a vacant lot overlooking a house which, Micro turned up in his research of the town, houses Candy, Sandy and Brandy, teenage triplets. Teenage triplets who love to sunbathe. In the nude, on occasion. In their backyard. Their backyard which just happens to be separated by one scant fence from the vacant lot.

And of course, Archie's there.

Frank stands at a distance of a good hundred feet, giving the kid time to become aware of him and maybe leave, if it isn't what he wants. He feels like ten kinds of a fool for even coming here. He wouldn't, ever, if this was any other town but Riverdale. But here, it's like there's something in the water.

He sees when Archie senses him. The kid stills, suddenly, and moves his hand away from where Frank suspects he's been just starting to open his fly. He turns his head, just a smidgeon, and jerks it gently in Frank's direction. _Come over._

The rustling of the leaves in the tall trees mesmerizes Frank as he walks over, feeling his face warmed by the gentle afternoon sun. Like bells, the girls' laughter adorns the sky. When he's ten feet away, he stops.  

Archie turns away from the sunbathing girls behind the fence. He's red-faced, but he stands his ground – kid's got courage, he'll give him that. "Sometimes, when it's real sunny, they'll – uh – take their tops off." And dammit, the kid's cock _twitches_ in his jeans. Frank can't ever remember being that young.

And yet, he can. A peaceful, wholesome town just like this one – a town long dead and buried in the graveyard of memory, the brightness of what went before sinking in the cesspool of all that came after. He stares at the flush rising in the boy's cheeks.

A few more leaves have floated down from the trees by the time Archie, with that endearing clumsiness, fumbles his way down from the fence, but he doesn't leave, just stands there, with a toothy, sheepish grin. Finally the grin disappears, and the kid steps up to Frank. "You –uhh…." He swallows and lowers his voice. "You won't – uh – _tell_ anyone?"

He doesn't know what came over him. To this day, he doesn't know. Perhaps it was the flush blooming under the kid's fair skin, the way his chest rose and fell, practically vibrating with lust. Perhaps it was that the kid reminded him of Tom, the tall, freckled redhead in Frank's long, long-ago hometown, of Tom and of long summer days just like this one, in secluded woodlands where blackberry bushes and scrubby crabgrass hid the shenanigans of two young, horny boys who'd just discovered that _boys_ could be as much fun as _girls,_ on lazy summer afternoons.

Perhaps it's the boy's _innocence,_ radiating around him like a fucking _halo,_ like being caught girl-watching is the worst thing that can happen to a man, like people finding out about it is _unthinkable._ Like death doesn’t exist, like he can't imagine the sensation of an ice pick in your hand as it scrapes bone on its way into a man's spine, like he's never seen a kid screaming for you to please kill him as the flies feast on his intestines, like paralyzed men choking to death in mud puddles don't exist.

And for Archie, they don't.

Archie Andrews _is_ Riverdale, the idyllic, perfect town that some Fate has preserved as a sanctuary from all the evils of the world outside it. All he knows of betrayal is two-timing a teenage girlfriend, sneaking a peek at a bathing beauty. All he knows of loss is getting an F on a test. All he knows of need is lacking the cash for a party or a birthday present. Frank wants to preserve that innocence under glass, protect and guard it forever.

Instead, he reaches out to defile it.

Only Archie meets him halfway.

"Sometimes, Jug and I…" Archie begins, before Frank grabs his face in both hands, and Archie shuts up.

Archie thinks Frank was going to kiss him, and God knows, Frank thought so too. Instead, though, he holds onto the boy and just stares. He stares at the soft, pink, unblemished, freckled skin.  He stares into the kid's eyes, pupils blown with desire – for _whom,_ Frank can't quite know, isn't sure he wants to. Smooth, smooth unlined face. So fresh. Frank knows he was never that young.

The small muscles twitch in Archie's peach-fuzzed face as he blinks, pink tongue darting across smooth lips. No wonder Frank instinctively knew the kid wasn't Red – just as Jughead Jones is nothing like the villain who wears his face. For a moment, there's no vengeance in Frank's head, no bitterness in his heart, only wonder. This, then, is what he kills to protect; this is the heart of the innocent, sweet small-town America he tries to preserve.

He's been so long in fighting _against,_ he's forgotten what he's fighting _for._

There must be something in Frank's eyes, because Archie's own widen, and his expression softens. The kid swallows. Then he smiles, tentatively, and it's so goofy that Frank almost smiles, too.

Archie looks nervous as hell, but his grin remains firmly in place. Still smiling, his cheeks pushing against Frank's cupping hands, he reaches down determinedly and fumbles with the hem of his sweater, digs his fingers into his pants and pulls out his shirt. Then he reaches for the fly on his jeans, still grinning nervously at Frank. "Don't—" he swallows, tries again. "Don't worry," he says, like Frank cares about small-town gossips. "Nobody ever comes by here." He's clearly having some trouble with the zipper. "Just Jug and me." His innocent eyes leave Frank's, concentrating on his stuck zipper, and Frank has to release the kid's face and look down, amused despite himself, at the Battle of the Broken Fly. The kid's lost his erection, and might lose a hand, the way he's fighting the little piece of metal.

Frank considers saying _I could just shoot it off._ Amusing as the mental picture may be, he actually does want to make the most of this moment, and sending the boy running screaming off into the woods would probably not accomplish the desired effect. As it is, he has quite a bit of completely innocent fun for some moments watching Archie jump up and down and gyrate, going, "Oof—ugh—agh! Dratted—ouch!"

 _Doesn't even cuss,_ he thinks with mild wonder. The sun's lower in the sky now, still warm and lazy, casting a golden glow over everything, gilding the tips of the grasses and the edges of the leaves . The girls' laughter is still tinkling in the air, For a moment, Frank wonders if he's taking something too precious to be his. But then he considers the "Jug and me", and _then_ he wonders when he became so much of an old woman that a little illicit fucking became something he had to agonize about.

Words are a nuisance, so he strides over, lifts Archie's _smooth warm_ hands away from the zipper, and rips it open. _Sproing! Waka-waka-waka_ bounces the kid's erection, so like Daffy Duck's bill that Frank grins, openly. "Gee, thanks," Archie begins, but he doesn't get very far because Frank's grabbed the hem of his shirt and sweater and yanked them up and off, fast and efficient. _Like stripping a corpse of incriminating evidence, or if there's something on the dead man you want—_

But he can't keep thinking of death, not when his vision and all his senses are suddenly filled with youth and health and _life._ The kid's all pink and soft, fresh and smooth, standing there in the woods naked like some damn cherub, all peach fuzz and tousled red hair and freckles and white teeth and only the swollen, bouncing erection between his legs making him more of a satyr and less of a Cupid. The fucking _hair_ between his legs is orange-red, like he needed more color, Christ—

"Gee, thanks," Archie repeats, smiling sheepishly and _Christ, blushing._ "I don't know what happened –  never given me any trouble before." And he steps forward, to thank him or hail a fucking cab or _what_ Frank doesn't know, but of course, being Archie Andrews, he trips over his own feet and lands against Frank's chest, and Frank automatically reaches to hold him up.

And it's too much, too much, his arms full of soft willing teenage kid and the brightness of the colors swirling around him, waves of lush green grass and handfuls of vibrant rose-hued flesh, and the breeze playing against his skin, and the sun slanting golden through the trees and the rushing of the water and the girls' tinkling laughter and the sweetness of the birdsong and Frank lets go and falls into Riverdale.

The boy's skin is smooth and lush as peachskin, flesh as full as peachflesh, freckles standing out under blood-flushed cheeks, tempting lips open in an O with a plea and a promise of _more,_ glazed, bleary eyes flooded with desire. The sky's reflected in those eyes, and Frank feels the sky within him as he lowers his head to the pink, young _so young_ body, mouthing and tonguing the skin _bone and muscle under supple flesh,_ feels the callow kid jerk and arch and gasp. Archie's fingers fist in Frank's hair, and it's been so long since he's felt _that_ that his eyes sting with emotion he'd thought was long withered and dead.

His knees are cradled in the soft green grass, his hands and mouth sinking into the soft smooth body, the laughter of the girls just behind the fence inflaming his senses, the birdsong caressing them like the gently falling leaves from the canopy of trees above them. Riverdale's such a – such an unfamiliar burst of _color,_ and now _sound_ joins with color to – to embrace him, to play on his senses, light, like a feathery touch on the nerves, like fingernails on steel, awakening what lay long forgotten.

Lying here, under the fluttering leaves, one drifting down here and there with the promise of full autumn behind the rich, slow summer days, Frank can almost, almost remember what it felt like to be human.

"Hey…" Archie reaches out to take Frank's shirt off. The orange shirt with the 'R' on it, no wonder he's acting like such a child. Then Archie, with a grace you wouldn't expect from such a clumsy clod, strips the heavy black shirt off Frank's torso—

\--and the whispering breeze breathes on his body, caressing his skin—

\--and Archie's hand is on Frank's body, dispelling the grey, pumping color and light and heat and life—

and Frank freezes. It's like plunging underwater, when the water laps against your skin from all around you and surrounds it and fills your senses so thoroughly that you can't breathe. He opens his mouth and gasps for air, and when the honeysuckle-sweet, wild-berry, dust-grass-wild scent invades him, inside as well as out, he's stunned to feel tears sting his eyes.

He's _alive._

Frank grins wildly, and pounces.

The kid comes almost at once, with the merest touch, but Archie is a teenager, with a teenager's recovery time, and in what feels like moments, he's stirring again. Frank almost smiles inwardly at the thought that he may have met his match in _something –_ although Micro, in eating, comes a close second. No, on second thought, Jughead Jones can out-eat both of them. Or eat them out, he finds himself quipping inwardly. How about that. He can joke again, even.

Unimaginable delight is all he remembers of that afternoon, when he dares pull the secret out and remember. Every time he touches the willing body, every time he moves against the kid, every time Archie's tongue touches Frank's skin, water in the desert, lapping up life, every moment the smooth fingers skim Frank's flesh, making him clamp his eyes shut and stifle the moan in his throat at the sheer unfettered gentle joy of it, so much he'd forgotten, so much… every time he clutches handfuls of heated, reddened flesh, hears the kid's responsive moans, feels him quiver… every time, it's like color and breath and life is pumping back into Frank, like artificial respiration, like CPR, like he was cyanosed and dead and bleeding out, and this is oxygen, blood, life. It's more like a dream than anything when he mounts the redhead, cradled in the lush grass. _God, so tight, so hot._ Frank holds himself steel-strong, motions tightly controlled. He's half-mad with lust, but he can control himself because it's all he knows how to do; Frank doesn't even think he's capable of letting go anymore.

It's good that he has such iron control, because the moment Frank lifts the smooth thighs, Archie moans and surrenders himself utterly to his hormones. By the time he's lubed up the kid – spit, nothing fancy out here – and stretched him with his fingers, the kid's almost weeping with need, and in the moment that Frank slides the head of his cock past the first ring, Archie lets out a shuddering cry and his brain visibly leaves the building, his eyes blanking and rolling back in pleasure, and if Frank listened to the horny teenager's pleas to "just do it already" he'd probably do the boy an injury. So he slides in, by fractions of inches, clasping the fluttering legs, feeling his cock throb at the little moans, throbbing again at the contrasting sensations, cool air playing around the base of his cock and balls, blazing furnace clamping round the head and tip, exercising every bit of his iron control as he buries himself in to the root, hearing Archie scream, eventually letting go and pounding in hard, coming with a bellow that feels like it shakes the very foundations of the earth.

When they come down, it's to a tripletude of identical smiles. Candy, Sandy and Brandy are watching over the fence like a trio of feminine Kilroy Was Here's, vastly entertained, eyes almost popping out. "Don't worry," one of the triplets says before they disappear quietly back down the fence. "We won't tell anyone."

* * *

 

"Sodas on the house, everyone!"

Cheers erupt from the crowd of teenagers assembled at Pop's. The grateful community of Jughead's friends insisted on treating Frank and Micro to a thank-you-cum-farewell dinner, and what better place than the teen Mecca of Riverdale? The jukebox is playing loud and somewhat retro tunes, thanks in part to the parental financial control ("My dollar, my music!"). Mr. and Mrs. Andrews are jitterbugging, quite lightly for their age and build, while the Joneses are seated in a tight knot with Archie and Betty in a booth. Magnate Hiram Lodge and his daughter Veronica sit at the bar, while Reggie Mantle and his father – the editor of the local paper, Frank gathers – lounge about not far from them. Weatherbee, Grundy and a few of the teachers at Riverdale High are there, as well, and some teenagers from the school are also dancing or having sundaes.

Weatherbee is being bullied into paying for burgers for everyone. Micro's tucking in his napkin already at the thought of Pop's specialty, "Jug's Delight." Frank's hungry enough to put away maybe ten, this evening, especially after his afternoon activities. He hopes he doesn't look as much like the cat that ate the canary as Archie Andrews does – face flushed, hair mussed, he's the absolute _image_ of freshly fucked. Tearing his gaze away from the kid, he checks out the contenders for the little eating contest. "Let's have your orders, folks! It's all on Mr. Weatherbee tonight!" Pop calls out like a circus showman.

Weatherbee nods and smiles grudgingly. Frank doesn't blame him, the crowd of big eaters in here tonight. "Let me have four, with an order of fries," says the principal, while the genteel Geraldine Grundy orders one.

"Six for me!" calls out Micro. "And two dozen Jug's Specials to go."

Frank has to stifle a smile at that. At least they'll be well-fed on the journey. "Ten Jug's Specials over here."

Pop swaggers over to the Joneses' table. "Jughead, the guest of honor! On the house tonight, son! How many'll you have?"

Jughead smiles politely. "Three, please, Pops."

A hush falls over the Chok'lit Shoppe.

"Are you sure, honey?" Mrs. Jones turns to her son solicitously. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, Mom," says Jughead. "I'm just really hungry."

In the seconds it's taken Archie to say, "You're not Jughead," Frank's already drawn an Uzi and leveled it at the impostor. The man plunges his hand into his jeans for a weapon. Reggie, from the booth behind him, smashes an ice-cream dish over his head. He slumps into his seat, semi-conscious.

Two hulking, black-clad men with machine-guns kick in the plate-glass window, and the restaurant explodes into chaos.

The window shatters inwards, showering everything in shards of glass. Screams fill the air as students and teachers dive for cover. Pop flings himself to the floor, empty plates smashing. The armed men spatter everything in sight with machine-gun fire. The mirror behind the counter smashes, raining down more sharp reflective particles that shatter into smaller pieces with the continuing hail of bullets.

Frank centers the Uzi on them, head-height. Two well-placed bursts and it's all over.

* * *

"Where is he!" Mrs. Jones is wailing. "Where's my SON!"

The scene of Pop's Chok'lit Shoppe has become a shambles. The quiet Sunday night is split by flashing red and blue lights, the streets clogged by a mess of ambulances, a coroner's wagon, and several police cars. The teachers have taken on the responsibility of clearing the site of students, while the suburban cops, not used to this type of crisis, are rushing about like headless hens. The Chief of Police and a couple of officers are standing with the fake Jughead, now handcuffed, the Joneses, and a very shaken Archie Andrews and Betty Cooper, in addition to Frank and Micro. Astjid – pointless to call him anything else, now, really – is standing impassively, refusing to talk. "I am your son, madam," he says. "You're mistaken."

"My son doesn't call me 'madam'!"

"And he doesn't have two sidekicks who come in and shoot up the Chok'lit Shoppe!" Archie chimes in. "When did you take him? How long have you had him?" A note of real panic creeps into his voice. "Where is he?"

Frank nods to the Chief of Police, who gestures permission, and leads the deposed king off to one side. "Astjid," he says, voice low. "Here are your choices. You can either tell us the whereabouts of Forsythe Jones now, or you can keep up this ridiculous act long enough for a DNA test to prove that you really aren't Forsythe Jones. If you choose the former, I'll make sure that you get deported to Muspellheim for an official trial through legal channels by the new government of your country."

"Who would – assuming I was Astjid – sentence me to death," sneers the deposed king. "I'm dead anyway. Why would I play along?"

"Because if you don't," Frank says in a voice like granite, "I will personally release three members of a revenge militia who were captured here in Riverdale – Ulrich, Berthold, and Kristian are their surnames-" the King pales slightly- "and then release _you_ into their tender care. Do you have any doubt at all that I'll do it?"

Astjid shakes his head violently, his hair flopping into his eyes.

"If there's anything left of you after they're done with you, I'll take it back to your country to be interred. Or tried. Providing you can still talk. Or move."

"All right, all right!" Astjid blurts. "I'll tell you!" 

* * *

 

Frank still doesn't like it, but Micro points out that, GPS or no GPS, nobody knows the caves around Riverdale like these kids do. Archie and Betty, especially, are Scout Troop leaders, and have hiked these unknown trails numerous times.

They've left Astjid and the Joneses back at the police station, and now the van's bumping over unpaved hiking paths. "Good thing we put in that new suspension," Micro mutters. Nobody in their party has asked anything beyond that they're going to find Jughead. Only Frank knows that the chances of finding him alive are slim; of finding him unhurt, virtually nil.

"Left along this trail," Betty Cooper points. "We took the underprivileged kids on a nature hike, here, once. Careful, the road slopes down suddenly!" she warns, just as Micro slams on the brakes.

Slowly, they descend the steep incline. Archie's pale, worrying at his fingertips with his teeth, and it's left to Betty to direct them. Frank grabs the window of time to load up with weapons and gear. "The van can't go any further," Micro tells them as it judders to a bumpy halt over some rocks.

"The cave's just over that ridge," Betty says. "Come on." She takes Archie's hand, and pulls him, almost by main force, out of the van.

"I must warn you," Frank says gravely. "He may be hurt. These men who have him are torturers. They think he's Astjid, and they want to kill him slowly."

It was the wrong move to make. Archie and Betty are pelting past him before he can fully get out of the car.

However, he isn't the Punisher for nothing, and, leaving Micro puffing and panting in their wake, Frank crests the rise and thunders into the cave hot on the kids' heels, fully expecting to come face to face with the horrors of a torture chamber and Forsythe screaming.

There _is_ screaming, all right, but it's more of a collection of angry yells than pained shrieking, and it's certainly not coming from Forsythe. As he steps into the cave and plays his flashlight on the scene, Frank can't help smiling, just a little.

A deep pit, just at the entrance of the cave, houses the two kidnappers. They're having little to no luck trying to climb the algae-slick walls, and are cursing fluently in a mixture of Muspellheimdeutsch, English, and a smattering of other languages. Above them, on a rock, sits Jughead Jones, remarkably cheerful considering his hands are cuffed behind his back. "Ah, ah, ah," he's in the middle of admonishing the kidnappers. "Words like that, I'll have to have my Mom wash out your mouths with soap."

Betty and Archie fly to embrace him as Micro staggers in, still gasping for breath. "I remembered about that old pit at the mouth of this cave," Jughead explains to them, lazy smile firmly in place. "Stumbled accidentally-on-purpose and they went down. Like shooting fish in a barrel." He grins full-on at Micro. "I sure hope you have a key to these," he says, jingling the handcuffs.

"In the bus. Come on."

Frank stays behind to check the security of the two vigilantes. Excellent job young Forsythe did trapping them, really. The walls of the pit are slick, and the men aren't going anywhere till tomorrow. He contemplates putting a bullet in each of them and ending it, but—this is _Riverdale._ They can wait and go on the transport with their fellow-vigilantes in the town jail.

He follows the group out.

Frank can't help noticing the way the Jones kid leans into Archie's shoulder, the way he relaxes into his friend's embrace. Archie may be bi – _'Jug and me'_ – but he clearly loves girls more than anything. While self-confessed woman-hater Jughead, out and proud in his own quirky way, is clearly head over heels in love with his best friend. Who loves women.

Frank brings up the rear, lets Archie lead Jughead out of the cave. Ah, well, that's life. Jones will grow out of his puppy-love, find someone who cares for him. And who knows? Perhaps Archie will find out where his truest love lies. Stranger things have happened.

Stranger things, Frank frowns, such as The Punisher standing there being a one-man Lonely Hearts Club. He hurries to the truck, where a newly uncuffed Jughead is rubbing his wrists. "C'mon! Let's go to Pop's and grab some chow. I'm starving!"

"Uhhh…" Archie begins.

"About Pop's…" Betty continues.

"The fact is…" says Micro.

Frank has to leave them to their explanation of why, exactly, Jughead can't go to his favorite watering-hole, and ducks hurriedly round the bus. It wouldn't be very good form for the Punisher to be caught _snickering._

 

* * *

 

"But why would the King come to the very place where he knew there were people gunning for him?" asks Mr. Weatherbee.

It's a golden, beautiful start-of-fall day – a great day to say goodbye. Gentle leaves are falling on the truck, which Micro's readying for departure. "It was a risk, but a calculated risk," Micro explains as he loads some of the gear into the trunk. "Astjid has Facebook, same as everyone else. He knew that all he had to do was sneak in, replace Jughead, have his men hand the real Jughead over to the vigilantes, and take his place until Jughead – as Astjid, of course – had been executed."

Mrs. Jones raises her hands to her mouth and reaches out to squeeze her son's shoulder.

"The body would be proof that the King was dead, and he'd be free to start a new life," Frank adds.

"And a few months later, Astjid would escape the Jones homestead, possibly with the bonus of identification to show he was Forsythe P. Jones. Maybe even leave a nice little letter to his parents," Micro nods to them, "to explain his reasons for running away."

"But… wait, wait. I still don't get it," Archie says. "How did they – I thought we'd already caught the vigilantes?"

"What we didn't know was that there were two groups of vigilantes," Frank says heavily. He's still mad at himself for making such a mistake. "That night when you came over to the Joneses' to help…" Archie looks embarrassed, but still keeps listening intently, "…I had just caught Jughead—" oh hell, he's spoken the nickname out loud, he'll never hear the end of that, judging by the way the whole complement of Jughead's Riverdale High friends are smiling—ah, well – "I'd just caught him trying to sneak out of his bedroom window. He said he was going to meet a girl."

 _"What?"_ exclaims Betty.

"But he _hates_ girls!" says Archie.

"That's a slander!" says Jughead himself.

Frank nods, helping Micro stack the ammo in the bed. "It was a legitimate enough excuse… for someone who didn't know Jughead."

"So it was Astjid…" says Betty.

"…sneaking **_in_** , not out," Frank finishes. "Meanwhile, the real Jughead…"

"…was taken out of my room earlier, probably when you were out running," Jughead takes up the tale. "They came in through the window, said they had guns trained on Mom and Dad, and they'd shoot if I resisted or tried to sound the alarm. So they made me go with them, and cuffed me. They handed me over to the vigilantes, and told them I was Astjid. I told the vigilantes I was Jughead Jones, but they just laughed."

"And those were the King's men?"

Frank nods. He remembers thinking at the time that they were too well-trained to be a mere civilian vigilante gang. "They installed Astjid at the Joneses', and hung around, at a safe distance, ready to protect the King if he was discovered."

"And so," Jughead finishes mournfully, "they shot up the Chok'lit Shoppe."

Everyone bursts into laughter at that. "If it's any consolation," Frank informs Pop, "the new government of Muspellheim, indeed the entire United Benverdent States of Eastern Europe, is extremely grateful, and they've told us they'll pay for all the damages."

Pop beams. "I've always wanted to have air conditioning put in…"

Micro laughs. "Go for it." He shakes the restaurateur's hand warmly. "Too bad we can't take a couple of your "Jughead Specials" with us this time, but…"

"Says who?" says the very man after whom the dish was named. Jughead steps forward, bearing a bulging bag of burgers. He hands them over, grinning to see Micro's delight. "Who do you think gave Pop the recipe?"

They climb into the truck, waving goodbye amid a chorus of cheery goodbyes, and Frank, uncharacteristically for him, keeps his eyes on the rearview mirror all the way down the long driveway, watching the kids and adults waving until the bus rounds a bend and they've disappeared from view.

"Yeah," Micro says. "I do like you in Riverdale."

Frank looks down at the orange letterman's sweater he's worn for this special occasion. It hides his black shirt, and it brings an avalanche of memories: a sweet smile, a sex-saturated summer day, a family meal. He never threw it out, and he won't now. He has a feeling he'll be wearing it again.

Somehow, Frank knows he'll be coming back to Riverdale.


End file.
